


god have mercy on me

by kurapikano



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, POV Second Person, Paranoia, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, brief mention of chrollo yuck, just the reversed cross tho, kurapika's pov, read content warnings, uhhhh fear of god but make it unhealthy, vent fic lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurapikano/pseuds/kurapikano
Summary: a rage and horror so deep that you beg for forgiveness from a god you don't believe in is one that man cannot describe.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	god have mercy on me

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING:  
> \- blood and gore  
> \- scrupulosity  
> \- religious guilt/religious pressure  
> \- literal fear of god  
> \- paranoia, possibly, since this is second person from kurapika's perspective  
> \- generally if you wouldn't like "take me to church" you probably don't wanna read this whoops.
> 
> this is heavily a vent based off of my own struggles with being forced into religion from a young age and therefore developing a severe fear. i have obsessive-compulsive disorder, and scrupulosity is one of the big bits. thus, a fear that if i don't live some perfect saintly life, my bitch ass is getting flamed by satan himself (i'm working on this issue dw).
> 
> if you've made it here, enjoy!

You're not sure where you are.

The walls are wood, ornately carved with designs of swirling vines and crosses that seem to beg for salvation. A glance upwards reveals stained glass windows with figures so much larger than you depicted in them. Sanctified notifs decorate them, but you're more focused on how they seem to stare back at you, judging you.

You know they can see the blood on your hands, and the fury in your heart, and, despite not believing in this place's figures of worship, you feel utterly damned to the very place you have taken it upon yourself to fill with the dirtiest of souls.

It seems they wanted you to turn the other cheek.

You turn, and continue down the hallway, failing to notice the red stains the soles of your shoes leave on the marble floor.

You would call this a church, but nothing feels holy. It feels empty, and numbing, and nauseating - this cannot be what a forgiving god feels like.

This cannot be forgiveness.

The hallway narrows as you near the endless rows of pews, dark wood swirling at the edges and lined with soft red cushions. Psalms and Bibles line the small shelves on the back of each, and you wonder how many people who were punished in those passages were exactly like you. But it can't be - right? You're doing the right thing.

You're ridding the world of evil.

You're stopping them.

Nobody else will feel the way you do because of them, and your loved ones will finally rest in total peace, without any part of their body being disrespected so disgustingly.

This is saintly work.

You shake your head - why do you even care? This is not your place of worship.

Even so, as you near a box in the front of the steps to the altar, you feel a horrible weight settle on your shoulders.

Why?

You don't know.

A key glints in the candlelight, golden and rusted from age. It clearly matches the lock of the same color on the chest, the latter of which is as ornate as the walls and pews. You are utterly terrified by the concept of opening it, for no clear reason, but you grab the key anyway.

The lock clicks, and it sounds deafening in the suffocating silence.

The top flies up on its own, and, crudely, words are scratched into it.

_God have mercy on you._

You nearly feel your heart stop, and that's when you notice a metallic scented, red liquid dripping down the sides, staining the wood and the marble floor like a massacre. It almost resembles the carnage you faced at age twelve, and you suddenly feel so, so cold.

You swear you hear voices whispering _"Kyrie Eleison"_ in panicked voices, and your heartbeat picks up. You cast a gaze down at your hands.

They're covered in blood.

A reversed cross mocks you from the corner, and you recognize it.

Your screams echo above the whispers.

You shoot up in bed, sweat trickling cold down your face and eyes blown wide. Your throat feels hoarse, though you have not been screaming in the land of the living. The room is cold, and even your blankets leave you feeling bare to the elements, the hum of the air conditioner whirring in the background.

You run to the bathroom.

When you exit, your hands are raw and red from trying so hard to wash your sins away.

And for what?

To protect yourself from a god you don't even believe in.

**Author's Note:**

> "kyrie eleison" - greek for "god have mercy".


End file.
